


to the shining core of you

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:49:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>also known as <b>Three times Mario Balotelli and Claudio Marcisio had dinner together and one time they didn’t </b></p><p> </p><p>Based on the fact that Mario has to sit next to Claudio at team dinner because it's part of his pre-match ritual with the Italy NT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the shining core of you

**Author's Note:**

> I call this piece: Proof that I'd do anything for Mario Balotelli.
> 
> I don't even like the Italian national team. 
> 
> Based from [this](http://twopieceandabusquets.tumblr.com/post/120512844525/mario-was-a-little-anxious-beforehand-as-he) quote from [this article](http://forzaitalianfootball.com/2011/11/juventus-claudio-marchisio-praises-more-mature-mario-balotelli/)

 

_**1.** _

 

 

The first time he met Mario, he wasn’t what Claudio expected. Claudio was 23 and Mario was 19, making his debut for the Italy U21. Even then, Mario walked around in a cloud of controversy, as if his every move might become a scandal. Claudio was wary. He had high hopes to be promoted to the senior squad after this and he wasn’t going to allow this kid to sabotage him. He wasn’t exactly thrilled when he realized they were roommates.

 

But Mario surprises him. It’s kind of his thing, as Claudio later discovered.

 

The Mario he got introduced to at the training camp was shy and quiet, though when he spoke, his Italian was perfect, the hint of Bresciano coloring his vowels (he wonders why he assumed it would be any different and feels ashamed at the answer). He smiled big at Claudio when he attempted a joke and stuck close to him all through training and dinner, watching the others carefully. He had no concept of a poker face and every emotion, good or bad, showed on his face. He tried to hide it, but Claudio sees him smother a wince every time someone speaks Italian slowly for his benefit. Claudio moved his chair closer and tried to get him to pass the salt.

 

There was a moment that Claudio remembered most from that year, a quiet evening in their room with just the two of them. Claudio was watching TV, while Mario absentmindedly juggled a small bean ball. He’d just finished off a conversation with his mother, who he called every night without fail. Claudio tried not to listen in too much.

 

“Hey, Claudio,” Mario had said suddenly, causing him to blink awake, “why do Juve fans hate me so much?”

 

Now that was a loaded question. Mario looked at him expectantly, silhouetted against the warm light of the bed light, somehow smaller than he’d been on the training ground that morning, playing around with the ball for the sheer joy of it, putting so many goals past the youth team goalie that the boy had eventually thrown his gloves on the ground in frustration.

 

“I think maybe they’re afraid of you,” Claudio said slowly, “afraid of how good you are.” _and what you represent_ , he’d wanted to add, but didn’t. Mario nodded thoughtfully.

 

“And the Inter fans? Why do they hate me?”

 

Fuck, Claudio was the absolute worst person for this job. But Mario looked like he expected a coherent answer, his face now carefully blank. It was the first time Claudio realized that his opinion was important to Mario.

 

“Well, the _Milanese_ have always been a bit weird,” Claudio said, knowing that it wasn’t nearly enough of an answer. But Mario laughed anyway, his teeth flashing in the half-dark. It was the best Claudio could do for him. It wasn’t enough. This also would go on to be a trend for them.

 

Claudio had some trouble falling asleep that night. He watched the shape of Mario’s back under the blankets, counting out the even breaths until his eyes eventually closed too.

 

_**2.** _

 

 

When they met up with the senior team again, Mario was freshly a Manchester City player and half the Italian squad hated him on sight. Claudio asked to room with him without a second thought and Zanetti looked at him as if he’d gone crazy.

 

A few hours later, Claudio was worried about that too. Mario had grown from the shy kid in the U21 to someone louder and brasher; someone who’d learned how to hide his emotions in the face of people, who barely tolerated him on a good day. It ached to watch.

 

Mario barely looked at him during dinner, though they were sitting next to each other as usual. He was too busy flicking peas over at an increasingly pissed off Materazzi. Mario was spoiling for a fight, that much was obvious. When Materazzi had finally had enough, red-faced and spitting out insults, Mario went to jump out of his chair, teeth bared.

 

For lack of any other option, Claudio put a staying hand on Mario’s knee and squeezed once. Mario sat back down and the other senior players intervened to calm down a fuming Materazzi. Claudio spent the rest of dinner with his elbow pressed against Mario’s flank, feeling his shirt brush against his skin every Mario breathed.

 

A day later, Mario was the least of his problems, as Claudio was lying on a physio table, breathing through the pain in his knee, rapidly numbing under a bag of ice. The physio’s had left him alone for the time being, probably to join everyone at dinner. There was a tray next to the bed, of pasta and vegetables, but Claudio wasn’t very hungry, electing to stare at the blank wall for lack of anything else to occupy him.

 

That was until the door cracked open and Mario’s head poked through. He was holding a tray in his hands and he rested it precariously on Claudio’s bed, undeterred by his incredulous look. Mario didn’t say as much as hello before he pulled a chair next to the bed. He regarded Claudio’s tray for a moment, before apparently judging it adequate and laying it carefully on Claudio’s lap. Then he sat in the chair and started eating, still using Claudio’s bed as a table.

 

“Mario…what are you doing?” Claudio finally managed to ask.

 

“Eating dinner,” Mario replied as if it were the simplest thing in the world as if he hadn’t just walk two floors down with his tray just to eat next to Claudio’s bedside.

 

“But why? Couldn’t you eat it in the mess hall?” Mario sent him a look that seemed to imply that Claudio was a total idiot and maybe he was, but that didn’t explain why Mario was here, especially since Mario hated physio rooms.

 

“Nope. I always sit next to you at dinner before games,” Mario replied, almost frustrated that Claudio didn’t seem to get it. “It’s tradition.”

 

“Okay,” Claudio said slowly, still feeling like there was a part of the conversation he was missing.

 

“Eat your pasta, Claudio,” Mario said, a smile lurking in the corners of his lips and he sounded so much like Claudio’s mother that it had him reaching for his fork instinctively.

 

 ~~3.~~   ** _(the time where they didn't)_**

 

 

The dinner was with several influential sponsors and it made sense to have Claudio sit with Gigi and Pirlo at the head table, use his blue-eyed charm to sway them into giving up more money and support. It also made sense that Mario was sitting with the rest of the players. For various reasons.

 

Mario didn’t see it that way.

 

In fact, when he saw the seating arrangements, he looked positively panicked.

 

“They have to change the seats,” he’d said to Claudio, looking ready to walk to the coach and demand it, which would frankly be the worst idea and Claudio knew it. “I have to sit next to you.”

 

Claudio grabbed at his hand to stop him, pulled him into a quieter adjacent hallway because they were already causing a scene. Mario’s hands were sweaty and he clutched at his hand like Claudio would be taken away at any moment.

 

“We can’t ask them to change the seats. I have to talk to the Fiat people, you know that we talked about it at the briefing,” there was a 50% chance that Mario wasn’t actually listening to the briefing. “You can sit next to Bonucci at dinner, you like Bonucci, don’t you?”

 

“But I have to sit next to you,” Mario said, almost plaintively. He seemed defeated somehow, where he’d previously been upbeat, somewhat calmed by his good run of form. “I don’t play well if I don’t.”

_‘Sometimes you don’t play well even if you do,_ ’ Claudio almost said but restrained himself. It wasn’t in him to be that cruel, especially to Mario.

 

“It’ll be fine,” he said instead, reaching out to rub Mario’s back in what he hoped would be a comforting gesture. “You’re doing great and you’ll only get better, no matter where you sit. Our beds are still next to each other in the room, right?”

 

“Unless you’ve been moved to sleep next to the Fiat official,” Mario said, and it had no sting in it, but he said it carefully anyway. Claudio laughed and Mario relaxed.

 

“I don’t think we need the money that much.”

 

“Good. We’d probably lose it all, you’d keep him away with your snoring,” this was familiar ground, teasing each other when the others weren’t around, Mario accusing him of snoring and Claudio moaning about Mario leaving dirty socks everywhere.

 

They went back to the group. No one seemed to notice their absence except Gigi, who swept them both with an assessing gaze before motioning Claudio to come over. They were still holding hands and when Claudio let go, he put it in his pocket, suddenly cold.

 

He felt Mario’s gaze on his back all through dinner, but when he turned around, Mario always looked to be deeply involved in his meal and the conversation at the table.

 

 

_**4.** _

 

 

They won against Poland. Mario was fantastic like Claudio predicted. He left the celebrations early, citing exhaustion, but Claudio knew he probably wanted to call his mom. Claudio followed not far after, bored and tired from the heat and the game.

 

When he walked into their room, Mario was still on his phone. Claudio waved at him before collecting his towel and heading into the bathroom for a much-needed shower. By the time he came out, Mario had finished talking, laid out on the bed without a shirt and just in a pair of low-slung sweatpants.

 

He looked up when Claudio walked out and something dark flashed in his eyes.

 

That was new.

 

Not that Claudio was unused to people looking at him like that. He wasn’t unaware of his charm. But Mario had never given any indication that he was more than straight, not for Claudio’s lack of trying. He’d made peace with his attraction to Mario when he was 23.

 

Claudio dropped his towel. It was nothing that Mario wouldn’t have seen plenty of times before in the dressing rooms, but this time, Mario didn’t look away. In fact, he gave him a once over, his gaze heavy and indecipherable. His skin seemed to glow in the lamplight.

 

Claudio turned around to hide his growing interest, and maybe spent a few moments too long bent over his suitcase. Mario’s gaze never strayed. Claudio got dressed in silence.

 

“Are you coming back to Italy on vacation this summer?” he asked eventually, patting down his hair where it went electric from pulling his shirt over it.

 

“Probably, at least for a few weeks. I miss my dogs,” Mario said, causing Claudio to smile. “Why do you ask?”

 

“You should make the drive up to Turin sometime,” Claudio said, smirking at Mario’s frown.

 

“Last time I went to Turin it wasn’t really a pleasant experience. What if rabid Juve fans jump me again?” That was possibly a legitimate criticism, but Claudio is in too deep now.

 

“You’ll be with me, it’ll be fine. They love me.”

 

“And what would we be doing in Turin?” Mario had this way of looking at you that made you feel like he was seeing right through you. In the meantime, Claudio seemed to have lost all ability to read him.

 

“I’d like to take you to dinner if you’re up to it,” and there it was; a flicker of surprise on Mario’s face.

 

“You’re inviting me to dinner?” Mario asked slowly. His hand came up to scratch at his torso and it drew Claudio’s attention to the hard planes of his stomach. “And then what?”

 

Claudio shrugged, turning down the covers of his bed to slip in. “Whatever you want.”

 

“Whatever I want?” Mario laughed. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?”

 

“Probably not,” Claudio turned so he was lying on his side and they were facing each other. “But I’m willing to find out.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Further notes:  
> \- Italian football fans haven't [been very kind ](http://espn.go.com/espn/feature/story/_/id/9338962/when-beautiful-game-turns-ugly) to Mario in the past. Juventus was fined many times for racist chants from their Ultras while Mario played at Inter  
> \- the timeline is all out of whack here, but Claudio and Mario were teammates at the U21's in 2008 and then in the senior team in 2010. The game against Poland where Mario played very well even after not sitting with Claudio for dinner was in 2011  
> \- Mario's performances for the Italian national team have been mixed  
> \- Claudio's knee injury is entirely made up  
> \- Marco Materazzi looks the type to be enraged by flying peas, thought he and Mario never played together  
> \- Leonardo Bonucci plays for Juventus and is their teammate in the national team  
> \- Curva Sciera is a stand in the Juventus Stadium where the Ultras are  
> \- I headcanon Mario as demisexual. This has little impact on the story, I'm just fond of it.  
> \- I really don't like Italian football
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://neyvenger.tumblr.com)


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